


A Statement of Affection

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: And he's very gay, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Martin's bad at Things, Missing Scene, Pining, Sort Of, There are some indications that it might not be wholly so, Unrequited Love, and very sad, end of s1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 22:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15805707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Martin has a few things to say to Jon.  Well, in theory, anyway.





	A Statement of Affection

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kyros for kindly checking that I did not Do A Violence to canon with this. I am now, after a 24-hour marathon binge, up to date myself as well. Ooooof.

[CLICK]

 **Statement of Martin Blackwood, July 31, 2016.** I know it’s not a real statement, but it feels right to say that. I think Jon would like to—would like to know. And I’ve no call to record it on a cheap tape recorder either, but, well, I’m being silly and sentimental and—this statement is for Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, in the event of my death. That sounds extremely morbid, but I don’t exactly _expect_ to die. This is just an in-case. Because it’s information, and I mean Jon always wants as much of that as he can get.

            Well, Martin, why not just tell him now and have done with it, then? Because it could be awkward. Because—because I don’t think I could stand it if he looked at me like he hated me for it. Because I’m a coward. I don’t know. I don’t know. But he would want to know at some point, so if I haven’t told you, Jon, here it is. Information.

            You asked me why I was still here, after all of this. The worms and the almost dying and the having to sleep in the Archives and all that. I mean, not that that’s a great hardship. The last one, the other ones probably count as the kind of thing I should at least be getting hazard pay for. But anyways, you asked me why. And I lied. I said I didn’t know, but I did, I really did.

            All right, I mean I wasn’t entirely lying. I really do have this weird feeling of being stuck. But even without that, I wouldn’t have left. Because _you’d_ never leave, Jon. Being an archivist is in your blood. It’s one of the many things I admire about you. There are a lot of things I admire about you. No, I said I wouldn’t lie. There are a lot of things I love about you. Some of the poetry on the others of these tapes might be about you. A bit.

            I know, I know, it’s horribly embarrassing. You shouldn’t listen. Honestly. It’ll be a mercy if you don’t. I don’t think I’m that good a poet.

           

            [LONG PAUSE]

 

            Jon. I thought you were dead or dying, by my count, three times during the infestation. Three times. And I truly didn’t know what I was going to do. I know how that sounds—how maudlin and ridiculous—I mean it’s not as if you even know how I feel. It’s not as if we’re dating or anything. But I swear I just felt something cracking inside me.

            The first time was when—when the first of the worms got you. I mean, did you do that deliberately? I don’t actually know if you did that deliberately. I remember you shouting at me to look out, and then I was on the ground, and I’m not sure if I just stopped suddenly or if you really did body-check me out of the way. And I looked up, and you were swearing and clutching your leg. I think my heart stopped. There was blood on your hand, just a bit, but it wasn’t the blood that scared me. We got you up again, and we got into that room, and I got out the corkscrew, and I—I didn’t pray exactly, I just may have been been repeating the _shema_ in my head on repeat. I don’t even really go to synagogue anymore, but—

            Well, anyway. You were screaming bloody murder, and Sasha was holding your leg so I didn’t hurt you any more than I had to. And I thought for sure I was going to freeze up, or I wasn’t going to get it, but I did. The whole long silver wriggling thing came out on the corkscrew, and I started breathing again. Apparently I hadn’t actually remembered to breath up till then. I smashed it with my foot, and, well, obviously you know all this.

            The second time was when I—when I left you and Tim in the tunnels. I just turned around and you were gone, and I know I’ve told you all about this as well, but I didn’t tell you quite all of it. I told you I tried shouting for you, and I did, but I—I shouted so long I think I lost my voice for some of it. Just. I was so angry with myself. So stupid. I’d left you both behind. I’d left _you_ behind, with the worms, down there to die in the dark. I’ve never hated myself more than I did then. When I got back, I found Sasha and Elias, and they were all right, but—I’m afraid I went off my head a bit.

            I don’t know how much Sasha’s told you, but okay. Let me see if I can straighten this out a bit in my head for you. When I found Gertrude Robinson’s body, I know I started screaming again. I suppose my voice must’ve come back by then, though I’ve had a bit of a sore throat since. I expect that will go away eventually. But I got a bit mixed up in the dark down there. I thought you were dead, like I said, and I’d just found Gertrude—it was horrible. When I clambered out of the trapdoor and found Sasha, just standing there, so calm—

            I blurted, “The Archivist is dead!” and I don’t—I don’t know if I meant you or poor Gertrude Robinson. Sasha took my arm and tried to say something calming, I think. I’m not sure. I was crying. She asked me what I’d seen, and then I managed to babble out about finding Gertrude Robinson’s corpse. Elias said he’d call the police.

            “Where’s Jon?” I said after that, grabbing at Sasha’s hand.

            “They’ve got him quarantined,” she said.

            “His corpse?” I asked, because I swear I still thought I’d left you to die. “Was he—was it quick?” I know I was crying. The snap I thought I’d felt earlier, it was like—it felt like I’d been riven in half, actually. I don’t recommend the experience.

            “He’s alive,” Sasha said. She seemed confused. “He and Tim. They’ve both been quarantined, because they have to be checked for signs of infestation, but I think they’ll be fine. The worms are dead.”

            I just stared at her. I’d been hoping, I suppose, that you’d at least died of CO2 poisoning instead of—of worms. It was really hard to adjust my worldview to encompass the idea that you might actually not be dead. I had to sit down. I put my head in my hands and just stared at the ground for a while. I think Sasha and Elias thought I was upset because of what I’d found—and I was—but that wasn’t really _why_. Just readjusting to the thought I might actually get to hear your _voice_ again—it was like walking out from a dark cave where you’ve been stuck for days into a bright noon day. It’s a huge relief but it _hurts_. And you cry. Look, I’m sorry, I’m not always great with metaphors.

            The third time I thought you were dead was just stupid. I don’t think you remember, you were a bit—you were pretty out of it for most of it—but I did see you again that day before you took my statement. I’d begged and pleaded so much that one of the doctors told me when they let you out of quarantine, and I rushed off to see you right away.

            The thing is, you were still actually unconscious from the painkillers. Or, probably, you’d just passed out again, I don’t imagine the doctors would have left you propped up on a chair like that. But your eyes were shut, and you were so, so pale. I think you were about as white as the bandages covering your arms and legs, and I just had this really _awful_ moment where I thought it had all been a mistake, and you were dead after all, and—

            And then you opened your eyes, and you actually smiled—G-d knows how—and said, “Oh, hello, Martin.” Like it was a perfectly normal morning and I’d just, I don’t know, brought you a coffee or something. More than that. You looked _so happy_ —I definitely think this was the painkillers, it was a bit unlike you—but you stretched and said, “I had quite awful dreams.”

            I said I didn’t wonder. And I went over and sat next to you. After a few minutes, you frowned and your face slipped back into more of its normal shape. “Those weren’t dreams, were they?” you said. And I have no idea what possessed me, and I’m _positive_ you don’t remember this because I’m sure you would have said something about it, but I reached out and actually brushed your hair back from your forehead.

            And I said I no, they weren’t dreams, but it was all right. She was dead. You nodded, quite seriously, and said, “Thank you, Martin.”

            I said, “For what?”

            And you replied, “For getting her _out_.” And then you shuddered and reached down and touched your leg briefly. I’m still not sure if you were thanking me again for the corkscrew thing, or if you honestly thought I’d somehow killed Jane Prentiss myself, but, well. Painkillers, like I said. I get it.

            Anyways, you seemed pretty tired, and Elias came in with the police then, who wanted my statement, so I left. I didn’t have much chance to—to wonder about that interaction before you called me back in for my statement, and you didn’t say anything about it, so, like I said, I’m assuming you don’t remember that part.

            It’s all right. It wasn’t important.

 

            [SHAKY SIGH]

 

            So there you have it. I’ve filled in all the bits and pieces for you, and at some point you’ll find out. Either I’ll tell you myself, or I’ll—I’ll—and then you’ll have this statement. It’s just for information, obviously, because like I said I know you like that.

            I love you, Jon. Well, that’s it. Back to awful poetry, I suppose. Oh, um, end statement.

 

            [CLICK]

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please consider checking out my original fiction at mertiya-writes.com!


End file.
